Memories Moste Macabre
by Poinkychan
Summary: When Auror Draco Malfoy is injured in the field, he resigns himself to clearing the manor of its dark artefacts. When he finds more than he was looking for, events take a strange turn...  DG Forum Fic Exchange Winner!
1. Chapter 1

**This story was written for Haz's prompt in **_**The DG Forum Fic Exchange – Fall 2011**_** by a member of the forum. For more details, please visit our page!**

_A/N: I fear I have been rather liberal with the prompt, apologies if this is not what you had in mind, Haz, but the story took over!_

**Memories Moste Macabre**

**Chapter One**

_Candles were burning low in their sconces, the sputtering light splashing along the stone walls. A chill wind wound through the corridors, whistling through the cracks in the walls. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, the calm in the centre of a raging storm. Darkness had engulfed the castle, great black clouds gathering in the night sky. Rain pelted the windows of the warehouse; trickling paths of blood dripping down the glass in the firelight. Lightning crashed across the grounds, illuminating the gargoyle form of a Sybil Trelawney, hunched over a porcelain cup._

"_Malice sweeps through the air," she muttered to herself, feverishly swirling the tea leaves. Her eyes were frenzied, though more lucid than usual. The cup was cast aside with the tinkling of breaking china, "He will return." Sybil swept out of the tower, her cloak billowing in the freezing breeze sweeping through the chimney breast. Her stride was purposeful and her gaze focused. With the dark forest in her sight, she turned with a crack and disapparated._

Draco's wand slashed through the air at an alarming rate, spells firing like bullets through the night air. Rain-soaked and exhausted, he was determined to finish this fight once and for all. He turned to look at his partner and gave a slight nod. Blaise Zabini flew from the ground as Draco hurried in the opposite direction, flanking their last opponent.

"_Impedimenta,"_ Zabini screamed as Draco flung a binding spell at the criminal. He

The man fell to the floor, ropes binding him from head to toe. The two Aurors sunk to the floor next to their quarry, and Blaise pulled a sheaf of Muggle post-it notes from his pocket. He wrote the time on the top sheet, peeled it off and slapped it on the man's chest. A faint blue glow surrounded the captive, and then he vanished.

"Got to give Granger her dues," said Blaise. "These port-it notes are ingenious."

"Mmph," replied Draco, with his head bowed to his chest. "The only easy part of the job."

Blood crept from a wound on Draco's arm; one of the assailants had struck him with a Cutting Curse. He held a steady hand against it, stemming the flow for the time being.

"One of them got away," Zabini hissed, anger colouring his voice. "He Disapparated back at the docks, before we could get the ward up."

"Shit." Draco shook his head. "The boss won't be pleased."

"Four out of five isn't bad, on considering the little Intel we had."

"Not bad, but not good enough," Draco sighed as hauled himself to his feet. "We had better get back to the office. Paperwork doesn't write itself."

"Now there's an invention to set Granger on," said Zabini with mirth. "Even you would give her credit for that."

Draco laughed. "For that I'd even buy her flowers."

With an inelegant snort, Blaise rolled his eyes and pulled out his wand. "See you there," he said before turning and vanishing into the air with a crack.

Draco stood for a moment, surveying the damage done to his arm. Peeling back the tattered remnants of his Auror robes, he peered at the deep gash just below his elbow. Blood was still flowing from the wound, which appeared to be more serious than it felt. Heaving another sigh, Draco drew his own wand to Disapparated, though he would have to be late for the paperwork:. hHe needed a trip to St. Mungo's.

Lightning crashed across the seething sky as Draco materialised outside the hospital. The rain lashed at his exposed cheeks as he rushed towards the revolving doors. His heavy leather boots pounded against the tiled floor, falling in cadence with the drips of rainwater pouring off every inch of him. Small puddles of water stalked him through the busy reception, as while people manoeuvred themselves away from him.

He strode to the counter and spoke to the attendant,. "Mary, long time no see. Could be doing with a Mediwitch around about now."

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy." She looked up, surprised. "What have you done to yourself now?"

"It would appear I have tried to have my arm chopped off, so if you would be so kind..."

Mary the receptionist screwed up her nose as she caught sight of the wound and pointed at the board overhead. "Straight up to Ward 4Four, Mr. Malfoy. Do try not to come back soon."

Draco flashed a tight smile as he turned towards the lifts. When the grilles opened on the fourth floor, he was blinded by a barrage of vermillion hair.

"Ooph," he puffed as the redhead ploughed into his injured arm, and the medical files she was holding cascadeding to the floor.

"Oh, shit! I'm sorry!" she cried as she bent down to pick up the now muddled up papers. She continued to babble her apologies as she scrambled at his feet.

"Weasley, I know I'm impressive, but there's no need to cower at my feet."

Her hands stilled. As her head rose towards him, he could see the mirth dancing in her russet eyes.

"Draco Malfoy, you total prick. Where have you been for the last month? My days have been dull without you in here bleeding all over the place."

He pulled his face into its most superior look. "Some of us have work to do, Weasley. None of this 'tending the wounded' nonsense you're into. Proper work."

She went to punch him in the arm, but remembered the injury just in time.

"Well, what is it this time?" she asked. "Old lady beat you up with her shopping bag?"

"I'll thank you to remember that it wasn't actually an old lady; it was a very thorough disguise."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'll let you believe that, Malfoy."

He gave an indiscernible grunt and strode off towards her office, waving his wand behind him to collect her fallen documents.

Ginny stared at his retreating form and wondered why she hadn't thought of that herself. Snapping her thoughts together, she hurried after him and her files. When she turned into her consulting room, he was sittingat in a conjured armchair, waiting like an old friend.

They weren't friends, not exactly. More like regular acquaintances. The first time she had seen him since Hogwarts had been in this very hospital, two years after her own graduation. She was an intern at the time, and had only been on the ward for two months. When Draco had arrived, he had been barely recognisable. His body was so badly lacerated that she was sure he must have been dead. When his swollen eyelids had flickered in her direction, she had leapt into action, using all of her brief medical experience to keep him breathing. It was a day she would not forget – the metallic tinge of blood in the air; the crimson liquid drenching her white robes. She had set herself apart that day as a reputable Mediwitch, and a bond had formed between herself and Malfoy which had not since been broken.

"Well," she said as she inspected his arm, "you're quite lucky here; the curse just missed the tendons. The wound is deep, however, and the arm will be out of use for a few weeks at least. I'm afraid I'm going to have to sign you off, Malfoy."

Draco let out a loud groan and looked at her with pleading eyes. She ignored the look, instead focusing on the bandages now pouring from her wand to snake around his forearm.

"Please don't, Weaselby. I don't think I can stand to be stuck in that ridiculously big house for more than three days at a time."

She shook her head. "Sorry, Malfoy. Doctor's orders. I'm sure there's something useful you can find to do."

He gave her a doleful look. "I suppose I will have to find something. Can I at least go in today to finish the paperwork? I'd hate to leave the work it all to Zabini."

"I think you've lost too much blood; you sound almost altruistic."

"Don't be so stupid, Weasley. He'll cock it up."

"Ah, that's more like it. You can go back today, but take this medical order with you. If I find out you've been working, I'll personally see to it that next time the arm comes off."

With another sigh and roll of the eyes, he nodded his agreement. "Until next time, Weaselby"

"Take care, Malfoy."

It was interesting, she thought, as he swept from her door. that Each time she said that she meant it more and more.

Draco's footsteps echoed in the barren hallways of his forefathers. Grim light trickled through the high windows from a weak waning moon, casting menacing shadows on the stone walls. He hurried along the corridor towards the study, where a decanter of whiskey would be waiting for him. The surrounding darkness slipped into his mind and pressed on his thoughts, misery already threatening to take hold.

Three weeks, the medical order read. He remembered a time when he was happy to play on an injured arm for weeks on end, to allow himself the luxury of idleness. It was amazing what passing years did to a person, he thought. The very idea of spending weeks in this place was utterly abhorrent to him. Since his mother's death he had barely set foot in the manor, preferring to Apparate directly to and from his bedroom so as to avoid the lingering darkness that engulfed the rest of the house. It was for this reason that none of his late parents' belongings had been organised. Their bedroom looked as though they had never left it; his mother's nightgown still draped over a chair, and a faint scent of her perfume lingering in the otherwise fetid air.

Draco sank into his favourite armchair with a tumbler of whiskey clutched in one hand,; the other hand was held to his chest by a sling. As the fiery drink sank into his stomach, he mulled over the problem of his family heirlooms. He had no need of the dregs of a debased, decayed housemanor. The noble house of Malfoy was no more, and good riddance to it. But still the darkness lingered, oozing from the very mortar in the walls. There was a malevolent feel in the old house, a presence that failed to be banished. Lucius' reign of terror lived on in the very foundations of the manor, soaked with the blood he had spilled.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Head whipping towards the window, Draco was surprised to see an unfamiliar owl perched on the sill. Its beak was persistently tapping against the glass whilst its feathers were buffeted by the dying storm. HeDraco shuffled across the cold stone floor, just able to reach the high window with one hand. The owl swooped inside as soon as it the window opened far enough, alighting above the fireplace and ruffling its feathers. A letter was tied to its foot, which he Draco tugged off roughly, with a barely apologetic look towards the creature. His eyebrows rose towards his scalp as he read the missive:

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_Forces greater than you or I have shown me trouble in your future. Beware your memories, as they may come back to haunt you. Do not allow him to take hold; it would be the end of you._

_Do not let him grasp the hand of power!_

Draco rubbed his eyes as he stared at the note. He gave the whiskey a doubtful glance, before reading the letter once more. It was not the drink; that was all that was written. He turned over the parchment, but it was blank. It didn't look like an attempt to threaten him, so probably not the work of some criminal whose plot he had foiled. Only one person he could think of would write such melodramatic portents, but why on earth would old Professor Trelawney write to him?

Casting the letter aside, Draco drained the glass and raised himself to go to bed. The shadows seemed deeper than usual, the silence thicker. He hurried to his chambers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Memories Moste Macabre**

**Chapter Two**

Watery sunlight fell through the open curtains, just enough light to coax Draco's eyelids apart. It was his fifth day of sick leave, and so far he had done nothing but sleep, eat, drink and fill out paperwork. He had left his bedroom only for absolute necessities. His arm had now gone completely stiff, making him feel more like an invalid than he had reason. It was pathetic, he told himself. He ought to be making use of the time – it was a commodity he was unused to of late. Last night he had convinced himself that the time had come to clean the manor of its filth. Not the kind that a house-elf could clean, but the sort that only magic and willpower could cleanse.

Once his eyelids had lost their sleepy residue, he dressed in his training gear and strode purposefully towards the hidden door under the carpet in the drawing room. The basement beneath had been a well-known secret in Malfoy Manor. As a child, Draco had known that it existed, though he was never allowed to descend into its murky depths. Only as a late teen had he seen what was held beneath the floorboards; they were memories he wished he could scrub from his mind. Shaking his head, he placed a hand on the smooth oak door, which led to the stately dining room.

An overwhelming stench of mould and decay met him as he pushed his way into the room. There was a visible layer of dust coating the large ornamental rug that ran the length of the cavernous fireplace at the back of the room. He knelt beside it, curling his lip at the fustiness emanating from the material, and flipped it back on itself, revealing the hatch leading to the dark heart of the manor. Draco lit his wand and steeled himself to delve once more into its depths.

Every step down the creaking stairs was more difficult than the last. The ominous feel in the old building seemed to palpably grow the further he went. The air seemed thicker, more malleable. It was bitingly cold as he reached the bottom step, his breath fogging in front of him. Foot catching on the rough stone beneath his feet, he stumbled into the dungeon. It was quite small, considering the size of the manor. It comprised of only a few short corridors, with around ten rooms in total. Six of those rooms were used to hold prisoners, Draco remembered. He tried to push the memory of old Ollivander's screaming from his mind, but it played over and over again in his ears like a banshee's cry.

Shutting his eyes tightly, he walked past the torture chamber, only opening them fully when he stood at the end of the furthest corridor. The remainder of the rooms in the dungeon were used for the storage of 'special' items, namely whatever cursed and illegal items Lucius could get his hands on. The Hand of Glory was still stashed away amongst the pile of dark artefacts, Draco's own stain on the name of Malfoy. There was one room, though, which had been solely left to his mother to store her most prized and cherished possessions. It was a room that Draco had only entered once, to retrieve his mother's will. It was to this room he was now headed, feeling that if he had to cleanse the rancid bowel of the manor, it was best to start in the more pleasant room and work his way towards the worst of it when his arm was not so stiff. It would not be useful to be caught off guard by a cursed object with only one arm to defend himself.

The door to his mother's vault was ajar; he must have left it open when he rushed from it before. He pushed it open silently, taking in the objects included in Narcissa's most precious belongings. There were stacks of jewellery boxes, which contained all manner of jewels and precious metals: necklaces strung with lustrous pearls, and rings with diamonds and rubies so large that they would weigh down the whole arm. Narcissa always did take pleasure in beautiful things, so this collection did little to surprise Draco. He would have them moved to the family vault for the time being, until good use could be made of them.

There were other assorted items of finery too: paintings, ornaments and gowns. The further back he moved, though, the less luxurious the items became. Row upon row of books lined a grand bookshelf, each one looking as though it had been read more than once. Draco had never known that his mother was such an avid reader, and the surprise was a pleasant one. It warmed him to know that there was more to Narcissa Malfoy than fancy pearls and perfect etiquette.

Something caught his attention out the corner of his eye. Turning towards the edge of the vault, he saw a collection of children's toys. They must have been his as a child, he supposed. Amongst the rocking horses, toy broomsticks and ever-spinning tops was a box. There was nothing outwardly unusual about the box, but it held his attention none the less. In fact, it was quite difficult to tear his eyes from. It was an ornate thing, but obviously antiquated. Carvings of gruesome faces adorned the lid; it seemed to Draco as though one of his father's possessions had found its way into his mother's store.

Unease washed over him as he crouched beside it – perhaps this was to be his first dark artefact to eradicate from his home. The wood felt worn under his fingertips, as though it had been opened many times before. There was no sophisticated lock, just a little latch holding the top closed. He flipped it decisively, and snapped the lid back quickly. For the second time in a week, Draco had the desire to rub his eyes. There was no dangerous poison, no cursed jewellery, and no book of darkest arts. There was what looked like a very old hand puppet.

It was crudely made into the form of a jester, though it did not look even remotely funny. The jester's face was made from wood, carved into harsh lines and painted a sickly grey colour. The eyes were almost lifelike, they were so realistic: bright blue irises surrounded pupils so black that they looked infinite. The body was a piecemeal of scrap wood and what looked like an old sock, so roughly hewn together that the whole thing clattered and swayed as Draco lifted it from the box. He could never remember seeing it before.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he put the doll down on top of the box and slid his hand in the hole between the dangling legs. It lay limp and lifeless on his hand, the legs creaking slightly as they swayed with his movements. Gazing into its eyes, Draco's fingers found purchase on the mechanism which would move the mouth.

"Why don't wizards wear flat hats?" he said in his best croaky, parrot-like voice. The eyes wobbled alarmingly as its wooden mouth banged open and closed.

"Because there is no point in it!" Draco answered his own joke, tipping the doll's head back and making it give a guttural laugh.

"Even your jokes are a disappointment," a voice spoke that was not his own.

Draco gave a start and stared at the thing on his hand, which he was sure had just spoken. Its beady eyes turned on their own accord to gaze into his own. Draco gave a startled cry and tugged at the head to rip it from his hand. The puppet did not come free.

A sly laugh slipped from the jester's lips, so cold and callous that it gripped Draco's spine like an icy hand. He shook his arm violently to throw it off, but it just jangled and clacked as the wooden limbs banged together.

"Why are you so keen to remove me, boy? We're only just getting acquainted."

The voice was familiar in its malice, as though his late father was channelling his spirit through the awful contraption.

"What are you?" he asked it sharply.

"Me? Why, I am you, of course. Or what you could be, if you choose. Your path is not already laid out, you know. You could be great."

The puppet's voice was like a charm, twining around Draco's senses and filling him with ease. It was melodic in its tone, soothing like a child's lullaby; it pulled on his thoughts and shaped them into its own.

"What do you mean, you are me? I've never seen you before. What dark magic is this?" Draco's voice rose in irritation, anger beginning to boil in his blood.

"Until you put me on, I was nobody. Your blood gave me life. It is weak, your blood. Your father was right about you."

Draco lifted his wand to blast the horrid thing to smithereens, but it spoke again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Who knows what might happen?"

"I'm willing to find out," Draco replied. "_Reducto!"_

_Sybil's hands shook as she shuffled the deck of tarot cards. _

"_There must be another draw. This cannot be the only fate I will see today."_

_She shuffled again, meticulously, obsessively. She drew three cards from the top of the stack and laid them face down on the table in front of her. Her fingers trembled as she turned over the first card._

"_The Devil. Evil approaches, ever dark and cruel!"_

_She turned the next card, already knowing what she would see._

"_The Fool once again; he will endure much sorrow and confusion," she muttered to herself. "I know the last card too well. I cannot look upon it again: The Tower. Destruction of the mind by evil, they read together."_

_Trelawney poured herself a glass of sherry and sank back into her plump sofa, eyes misting over. _

"_If only Severus were here," she sighed, before falling into a dark slumber._


	3. Chapter 3

**Memories Moste Macabre**

_**Chapter Three**_

It was two weeks since Draco had visited St. Mungo's, and Ginny Weasley was beginning to grow concerned. It was not unusual for him to be absent for months on end, but usually when he visited for her services, he would keep her informed of his progress. Not only because they were almost friends, but because her advice was usually invaluable.

She had not heard from Draco since the day after he was sent on sick leave. He had sent her an owl telling her that a mysterious letter had arrived, foretelling doom and other such dross. Though she had thought nothing of it at the time, she was beginning to worry that perhaps it had been a threat after all. She had sent a number of owls in the intervening weeks, but none of them had been returned. If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought he had injured his writing hand. Even then, Malfoy knew how to use a Dictate-a-Quill.

It was with these niggling worries on her mind that she paid a visit to the Auror Headquarters in the Ministry of Magic. She went under the pretence of visiting Hermione, who worked in the Law Enforcement department. After a brief chat about the possibility of self-writing paperwork, during which Ginny mostly glazed over, she positioned herself near to Blaise Zabini, who she knew to be Draco's partner.

"Hey, Zabini," she called.

"Hi there, Weasley. I should thank you for getting Draco signed off; it's been ever so peaceful without his pompous preening."

She laughed. "Ah! I can only imagine. Does he file his nails after or before a raid?"

"Both," Zabini said, poker faced.

Ginny let out a slight giggle. "I can believe it."

"Have you heard from Draco lately?"

The question reaffirmed Ginny's unease.

"That's what I was going to ask you. It's been almost two weeks since I've had word."

"Oh, I've heard from him," said Blaise darkly, "but something seems amiss."

"Amiss?"

"We have been sending Malfoy the odd bit of paperwork to finish off, while he's away from the office. He started sending it back daily, filled in as diligently as usual."

"I sense a 'but' coming," Ginny prompted.

"But," said Blaise pointedly, "they have been returning less frequently, and they're not ... well. They're not Draco's usual style."

"I can't imagine Draco not being thorough." She frowned. "He's always struck me as being very professional."

"Maybe you should take a look from a, ah, medical perspective."

Ginny's eyebrows shot into her hair. "Is it that bad?"

"Come have a look."

Draco's head swam as he opened his eyes. The skin on his arm was raw and blistered from where he had tried to prise the hand puppet away from the flesh. It itched furiously. In an effort to ignore the pain, he took another swig of whiskey.

"Pathetic boy, drinking away your problems."

He ignored it, leaving the offending arm dangling from the arm of his chair. The sling was off, which was for the best. He could not do anything with his good hand unless he wanted the puppet to do it for him. He had tried it a few times, and it had ended badly.

Last week he had tried to fill in some crime reports. It had taken all of his strength of will to manoeuvre the quill with his fingers stuck in the traitorous cloth of the jester. He had managed, mostly, to work as normal. It was only when he read through the reports that had been sent back by an irate Blaise Zabini that he saw the influence his 'other half' was having over him. In random places throughout the report, phrases were written that he was sure were not his own.

_He deserved it, the dirty Mudblood._

They were scattered throughout the whole damn thing. He knew it was true, what the puppet had told him. It was _him._ He thought those things sometimes, even after the terror of the war. Still, somewhere deep inside him was the old burning hatred.

_We should have killed them all._

"STOP IT!" he screamed, throwing the glass against the wall where it shattered into a myriad of pieces. "Stop making me think these things! Putting those thoughts into my head!"

He glared at it, knowing he should do something. _I should go see Ginny._

"Filthy blood traitor!"

He said it aloud. For the first time it was he that spoke, not the puppet.

"I wouldn't go see Ginny if I were you," its poison dripped into his ear. "Who knows what we might do to her?"

A sob tugged in his chest. He mustn't go near her, at all costs.

"Have another drink, you pathetic excuse for a Malfoy."

Draco dragged the bottle to his lips. _Might as well, _he thought. _At least I won't be able to think._

"Good boy," the jester whispered.

He sank into oblivion.

Blaise was looking at the latest report to come from Malfoy Manor.

_We should have killed them all._

He looked up at Ginny. "We have to go over there. Now."

She wore an alarmed expression. "Do you think that's wise?"

"I don't really see that we have a choice. Something is wrong. Coming?"

He held out a white post-it note, with 'Malfoy Manor' scribbled on the top.

"We have emergency port-it notes," he explained. "Just in case..."

She grasped it as blue light surrounded them both, the familiar tug beneath her naval sending her into swirling oblivion. When her feet slammed into the ground, it was not the relenting earth that she had expected. The solid marble floor beneath her caused her knees to buckle, and she was caught just in time by Zabini, whose Auror reflexes were clearly up to scratch.

"Draco?" she questioned into the stagnant air.

There was no reply.

"Where are we?" she whispered at Zabini.

"The main entrance hall of the manor. If I know Draco, he is either in his bedroom or the study. We'll try the study first."

"How do you know?" she whispered again.

"You don't need to whisper, Weasley. It's not a library."

"You don't need to be an arse, Zabini, but it clearly doesn't stop you."

Ginny headed up the grand staircase, her feet surprisingly light and nimble as she took the steps two at a time. Blaise's long legs soon caught up with her and they fell into step together, peering through open doors as they travelled along a dingy corridor. Small puffs of dust rose from their feet, the particles tickling Ginny's nose.

"He hates the house," Zabini said abruptly.

"I gathered that from the fuss he made when I signed him off."

Ginny's tone was light and jovial. When she looked over to Zabini, she saw that his mouth was set in a thin line and there was a crease between his brows, showing his severity.

"No, Weasley, he _hates_ this house. He won't spend more time in it than necessary. There are dark ghosts of memories lingering here…"

Ginny did not respond. She quickened her pace, trotting down the dimly lit halls. Halting suddenly, she realised that she had reached a dead end. Blaise was still halfway down the corridor and had stopped; he was staring into one of the open doorways, a look of trepidation dancing across his usually strong features. She crept towards him, footsteps muffled by the dense, dirt encrusted rug, which swept the length of the floor.

When she peered around the gap in the door, her jaw dropped and remained limply hanging open as she took in the sickening sight before her.

"There are intruders in our ancestral home."

"This isn't a home. It's a hellhole."

"Do not besmirch your family, disgusting filth! You would be nothing, _nothing_ without the legacy of this estate!"

"Legacy!" Draco spat on the floor. "Old crones and evil masters, that's all this manor has ever held."

"Enough!"

The Jester hissed the word, its treacherous eyes boring into Draco's own fatigued ones. Draco turned his head away from it, as though looking elsewhere would lessen the intensity of its hatred.

"They're approaching."

Faint footfalls padded past the study, their pace quick and nimble.

"The dark one has seen you. He can see your evil, your boiling rage. You are full of it, from crown to toe. Full of fell purpose and dire cruelty."

Draco's eyes were closed tight, and he had his arm covering his ears in an attempt to block out the haunting accusations. It was no use. They were spilling from his mouth, rattling up his throat to reverberate in his head like the bellman; a death knell.

A gasp echoed through the open door. Draco's head whipped around, an unnatural light shining in his frantic eyes.

"Who is there? Show yourself!"

Ginny tried to rush forward, desperate to help her most troubled friend, but Zabini held her back. He whispered in her ear, "I will go first, just in case."

"In case of what?" She sounded hurt on Draco's behalf, as though she believed he could not possibly do any harm.

"In case that thing, whatever it is, has taken him over completely. He might try to harm you."

"Why would he?"

"Because of who you are; because of who he thinks he is."

"I don't understand." Her eyes were clouded with confusion. "Who he thinks he is?"

Blaise sighed. "He thinks he is his father, incarnate. Bad blood begets bad blood."

Her mane of flaming hair shook in her disbelief. She motioned to Blaise to go forward. They crossed the threshold.

"Here comes the traitor! All talk and no action, Zabini. Idle defectors against the mighty cause, you and your family were. You dare to walk in my house?"

A change had come over Draco's voice. It no longer held its usual dulcet, mellow and seductive tone; it was cracked and gravelled. There was menace trailing under his words: an evil spirit waiting to strike out. His hair was matted and dishevelled, and his cheeks gaunt and covered in ragged stubble. The eyes were not his own. Ginny was struck by his resemblance to Lucius in the final days of the war.

The hate-filled eyes widened when they saw her.

"OUT! Get out!" His eyes narrowed in rage. "I should kill you where you stand, Weasley."

It was the way he said it: cold, calculated. It was then that Ginny knew this was not Draco, not any part of him.

"He is his father," she breathed. "I have to go. I have to go right now."

She fled, leaving Draco and Blaise behind to fight it out on their own.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

Ginny crashed out of the grounds of Malfoy Manor, Disapparating as soon as she set foot outside the gate. When she re-materialised, it was outside the gates of Hogwarts. She flung the gates open and ran full pelt towards the castle entrance. Before she could raise her hand to batter on the oaken doors, they opened. Ginny stopped with her hand half raised, mouth slightly agape.

"Hello, dear. I foresaw your coming."

"P-Professor Trelawney," Ginny sputtered, catching her breath. "What – what do you mean?"

"The hand of power has been grasped, has it not? He is trying to return, to take young Mr. Malfoy for his own. Do you know what you must do?"

"Yes, yes," she rushed. "Ron told me about it years ago. I haven't forgotten."

"Good, good. Minerva is in her office; theft will not be necessary."

Ginny blinked, shook her head and muttered, "Of course not."

Despite her hurriedness, it was impossible for Ginny not to drink in the safe and familiar walls of Hogwarts. The suits of armour were once again standing proudly on their plinths; the moonlight cascaded through the draughty windows, dropping light upon the cold stone floor like scattered Sickles. Even the smell was a comfort – the scent of potions wafting from the dungeons, and the wholesome waft of dinner being served in the great hall. Ginny did not stop to savour them. She rushed through the frigid halls, skidding to a stop at the stone gargoyles that guarded the Headmistress' chambers.

She stopped short.

"Shit," she murmured to herself. "Password."

The gargoyles were stock still and unblinking.

"You must let me through," she pleaded. "It's an emergency!"

Still they were unmoved.

"OPEN UP!" she shouted, losing her patience. "Open up, you hideous swine!"

"Miss Weasley! Is that you?" Minerva McGonagall's voice interrupted her.

"Professor! I need your help!" Ginny blurted.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"No time to explain. Can I borrow the Sorting Hat?"

McGonagall blinked at her. "I'm sorry?"

"Can I borrow the Sorting Hat? It's an emergency. Draco is in terrible danger!"

"I beg your pardon! Master Malfoy, you say? If you're willing to save him from danger, you certainly must be a Gryffindor. I'm not sure you need the Sorting Hat!"

Ginny cracked a small smile at the indignant tone of McGonagall's voice. Of course she would always belong to Gryffindor; that was without question.

"Professor, I will _always_ be a Gryffindor, and if you let me have that hat, I'll prove it beyond doubt." Her earnestness showed in the set lines of her face, and McGonagall softened.

"Come up, Miss Weasley. I expect a full explanation."

"I promise I will explain after I have saved Draco. He is ... a good friend," she finished lamely.

McGonagall nodded sharply and spoke the password to the gargoyles (Oddment). She swept Ginny onto the rising golden steps and into the circular office beyond. As soon as Ginny stepped foot off the staircase, she bolted to the cabinet holding the Sorting Hat. Fumbling with the catch, she flung the glass door open and snatched the hat from its stand. Ramming it onto her head, she squeezed her eyes together and thought loudly for the hat to hear.

Minerva watched in bemusement at the scene before her before letting out a gasp when the hat performed a familiar contraction atop Ginny's head. Understanding lit her eyes as she looked intently at Ginny.

"Who?" she asked.

"Lucius," Ginny replied as she withdrew the gleaming Sword of Gryffindor from the hat's unfathomable depths.

She nodded her thanks to the Professor and withdrew the used port-it note from her pocket. "Hope this still works..." she said, as she tapped her wand to the paper.

A flash of bright blue encompassed the room and she was whisked away, the sword clanking against her leg as the world whizzed past her.

The Jester was speaking again, from its own mouth now.

"She left you, Draco. She saw what you are and she ran! Wise girl, for a Mudblood lover."

"No, no, no," Draco muttered. "She knows. She knows what I am."

"It is what you have always been, deep down."

"Stop it," he begged. "Leave me alone."

Hunched in the armchair, he looked like a frightened child. Blaise was at a loss. As soon as Ginny had left, Draco had retreated into himself. This schizophrenic exchange had been going on ever since. He had tried shouting, cajoling, even firing spells. The puppet had no interest in Blaise; its attention was focused solely on Draco and his worsening mental state. It would break him soon, if Blaise could not stop it.

_One last try_, he thought.

Creeping to Draco's side, he slowly reached out a hand to the Jester, intending to rip it from his partner's hand. In a flash, Draco was atop him, pinning him to the ground. Blaise's vision filled with the leering face of the Jester and he struggled against the abnormally strong grip around his throat. He strained against the weight of Draco's body, his hands clawing at the Jester, at Draco, at anything around him that he could use as a weapon. Remembering his wand, Blaise tried to reach the holster on his left arm.

"I will have him."

The Jester's whisper in his ear was like an icy wind. Black dots sprung to life in front of Blaise's eyes, joining together until only pinpricks of light remained.

_BANG_

The last thing Blaise saw before the darkness took him was Ginny Weasley's flaming hair streaming through the door, a large ornate sword grasped in her hands.

Draco stood abruptly, staring in disbelief at the vision before him.

"Ginny," he rasped. "You came back."

"I'm so sorry, Draco." She raised the sword high above her head, bringing it down with a sickening thud on his possessed hand.

A blood curdling shriek rent the air, otherworldly and inhuman. Draco's exhausted body hit the floor, his arm severed from the elbow down.

When Draco awoke it was to the blindingly white lights of a hospital room. His head was aching something fierce and his mind felt clouded, as though a great fog had descended upon it. Searching blearily around the room, his gaze landed on the red-head asleep beside him, clasping his hand.

His hand.

The memories hit him with the force of the Hogwarts Express. The mysterious letter, the box, the Jester – and then his recollection became staggered. He remembered drinking. A lot. He remembered writing reports. He remembered Ginny and Blaise storming his house.

His head whipped down to his arm. It was still there. He leaned closer towards the limb, eyes squinting against the intense glow of the ward. A faint silver scar ran around the skin underneath the elbow, forming a perfect circle around the arm.

"I told you I'd cut your arm off if you did any more work."

Draco turned his head on the pillow to look at Ginny.

"I don't recall working, Weaselby." He coughed as he spoke, throat sore from lack of use.

"Paperwork counts as work where I'm from."

The mischievous light was in her twinkling eyes once more. Draco relaxed into the bed. He tried to use his most snobbish accent.

"Well, you come from a hovel, Weasley. Paperwork is something you probably dreamed of as a child."

"Nah, that was Percy," she joked. "I dreamed of simpler things, like a uniform that hadn't been worn by three older brothers first."

"Urgh," he uttered. "How vile."

This time the haughtiness was not affected.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Like I had my body and mind taken over by – well. What was that, anyway?"

"A Horcrux," she whispered, as though afraid to say it aloud. "Your father's Horcrux."

She released a shaky breath.

"Ron told me about the locket Tom Riddle used for his Horcrux: about how it fed on Ron's fears to gain power over him. It brought out the worst of him ... He abandoned Harry."

Draco stared at her before confessing, "I thought you had abandoned me."

"No," she said softly. "I saved you. The Sword of Gryffindor can destroy a Horcrux..." A sob ripped from her chest. "I – I cut off your arm, then stabbed it in its wretched face!"

"Well, I seem to have recovered amazingly well."

She smiled a little, as he had hoped she would.

"Well, I am a Mediwitch. Reattaching limbs is nothing new."

"Still, I reckon I owe you one, for saving my life and all."

She looked up at him through her eyelashes, as though measuring him.

"Take me out for dinner and we'll call it quits," she offered.

"Fine." He exhaled noisily. "But you're not using a knife."

End


End file.
